


Smithereens

by justlikepagliaccis



Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: Bar fights, M/M, john is lowkey whipped, pete is horrible at fighting change my mind, pete's drunken ranting, protective!John, some smut towards the end, tw: homophobic slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23937916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikepagliaccis/pseuds/justlikepagliaccis
Summary: Without fail, a drunk Pete is a chaotic one – a catalyst to bar fights wherever he goes. John is far less tolerant of these incidents and lets his opinion be known.
Relationships: John Entwistle/Pete Townshend
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Smithereens

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of these two together, I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to write for them! I apologize for the language used, as this is one of my more mature works.   
> Enjoy!   
> – adeleine

It had been John's idea to go to the pub. The show was over and the band was running on an intense adrenaline high from their near-immaculate set. Pete had been too light-headed to say no to John's offer, especially when his eyes twinkled merrily with a secret fondness shared only between them. 

He managed a sluggish nod followed by what he hoped was an enthusiastic smile, though it probably fell close to maniacal. But John hadn't seemed to notice, still floating on his own cloud in that guarded manner of his. 

Quiet excitement, Pete called it. 

The dim lights of the pub glimmered in hazy halos hovering over the crown of John's head, contrasting against the jet black of his hair. It was all Pete could pay attention to as John led them to a secluded table at the back of the bar. 

He could do for a brandy, but liquor would just worsen his already blurry state of mind. John ordered one for him without even asking, surprising Pete by memorizing his order. Something thick and molten warm trickled through his limbs at the thought. 

"Alright, Pete?" John asked, his voice low and rumbling. 

Pete wrung his hands discreetly underneath the table, finding them sweaty from embarrassment. John was leaning across the table to keep things relatively private in the intimate setting, dark tendrils of his shoulder-length hair spilled onto the glossy wooden table. He wanted to gently push it back behind John's ear so it wouldn't fall victim to the persistent pub stickiness that inhabited all the surfaces. 

"Fine," he replied, shifting in his seat guiltily. It was bad enough having fantasies like these about John, but it would make things irrevocably worse if he were to ever find out. "You remembered my order, you sentimental sod." Pete immediately shut his mouth before anything else slipped. His head was foggy with the remnants of a cacophonous night, the fans' shouts still reverberating in his ears. 

Pete didn't want to kid himself into believing that John had begun to turn red, refusing to acknowledge the two darkening spots high on his cheeks. The heat, he assured himself, even though Pete's thin button down did little to combat the chill of the room. 

"Not like it's the only thing anyone ever sees you drink," John grumbled like he was angry. Pete knew him long enough to see that he wasn't. His tones were much too teasing, and John was biting back a crooked grin.

The moment was interrupted by the waiter who brought their drinks. He clunked them on the table right in front of their faces, obstructing Pete's view of John. Pete's expression was unrecognizable as anything but a pout as he slid his brandy out of the way for the time being. If John noticed, he didn't say anything. 

They soon fell into an easy conversation about music which soon drifted in much stranger directions thanks to the abundant supply of alcohol through John's running tab.

Pete had gotten into a half-coherent rant about the effectiveness of stage makeup after his fifth glass of brandy. The liquor was sweet on his tongue, lulling him into a rosy sense of security. John didn't look at all inconvenienced or annoyed, he remained intent on all Pete was saying – as if it all made perfect sense. 

John was about three whiskeys in and nursing a fourth, barely showing any outward signs of drunkenness. Like onstage, he kept a steady, constant presence. 

Whereas Pete was gesticulating wildly with every word, shooting his hands out to emphasize his meaning. He also tended to grow louder the more impassioned he became and, as of ten minutes ago, Pete had hit his peak at dark eyeshadow on handsome lads and was now screaming for all to hear. The bartender snuck them some uncomfortable glances every now and again, but they were both too sloshed to notice. 

They were also too sloshed to notice the increasing aggravation of a few patrons nearby. A particular man had resolved to take the matter into his own hands after a few more gulps of ale. 

Pete was in the middle of a vibrant and detailed description of Mick Jagger in lipstick when he stormed over. 

At first, Pete didn't realize anyone else was there until he nearly slapped him with his excited gesturing. Pete trailed off, following the direction of John's icy glare to an equally irritated stranger. He, along with them, had one too many and had to grip the table to keep his balance as he leaned down to speak. 

"You two queers better rein it in before I fuckin' report you! Why don't you take that scarecrow fuck of a boyfriend home?!" 

Any background chatter instantly silenced at his booming voice. Everyone turned in their seats to root for a potential fight. 

Pete's reaction was instantaneous, the numerous glasses of brandy coupled with a racing mind made a deadly cocktail of emotions that soon bubbled over. Who did this idiot think he was?! He pushed himself to his feet, accidentally knocking over his half-empty glass. 

The brandy spilled in thick pools of sun-dappled orange, hurriedly mopped up by John. Pete was barely paying it any attention, his eyes wild and focused only on the inconsiderate fuck-wad that had distrupted their contented paradise. 

With the rowdy cheers of the patrons around them, Pete took a swing at the man. He managed to clip him in the jaw, however it wasn't a direct hit and his knuckles screamed in pain. While Pete was trying to recover enough to think about his next move, he was snatched up by his shirt like a ragdoll by the now very enraged stranger. 

"Fuckin' hit me again, you bloody faggot! I fucking –" And just as fast as Pete had been suspended in air, he was let down onto the ground with a disbelieving groan. Why had...? Oh.

John, the same easygoing Big Johnny Twinkle from school, had slugged the guy right in the stomach, causing him to double over and subsequently drop Pete. He could have stopped there, gathered Pete and took them both home, but John didn't seem content on just leaving.

Pete watched with eyes like dinner plates as John shoved the man so hard he tripped over his own feet and tumbled to the ground. A few drunken bar-goers began to applaud the scene, laughing at the shocked expression of the man on the floor, still writhing in pain. 

Pete felt a strange pang run through him at the sight of John's brute strength, suddenly going light-headed again. He fingered at the collar of his torn shirt, chewing absentmindedly on his lip. John still wasn't finished, and it took almost four people to tear him away from the man he was currently kicking to a pulp. 

"Fuckin' touch him again, little bitch," he snarled, his voice throaty and strained in ways that Pete had only rarely caught glimpses of. "Next time you won't get back up!" 

John finally allowed himself to be removed from the pub, followed closely behind by Pete. The barista was already on the phone with the police, so they needed to leave quickly if they wanted to avoid a night in prison. 

Pete hesitantly curled an arm around John's middle as they stumbled down the poorly lit streets, the shroud of night wrapping them in comforting isolation. John still remained tense under his fingers, and when Pete met his eyes from beneath a dim street light, they were swimming with an emotion he couldn't place. 

"John," Pete said, worry lacing his words. John had only gotten uncontrollably angry three times in the almost twenty years that they had known each other, and Pete never figured out how to properly address it. 

But John was staring back at him with such fervor that it was easy for Pete to fall into his hands as John yanked him into a nearby alley. 

His tongue went lead-heavy in his mouth, unable to form basic syllables as John shoved him into a wall, his big, hot hands greedily sweeping up his arms and over his chest. With a barely stifled whimper, Pete wormed around in John's grip until John grabbed his face roughly in one large palm, connecting their lips. 

The kiss was biting and possessive and, if Pete weren't currently being held up, he would've melted into a gooey puddle on the asphalt. John claimed every inch of Pete's mouth with his tongue, pulling away reluctantly when they both needed a few gulps of air. Pete couldn't meet his gaze, suddenly bashful. 

He was a right mess in his sweaty stage clothes with brandy on his breath and a clump of matted hair falling over his brow. It didn't look like John minded all that much, as he had already found access to Pete's neck, emphatically planting hickeys everywhere he saw fit. All Pete could do was hang onto the shoulders of John's leather jacket with white-knuckled fingers, panting into a black wave of hair he could finally touch. 

He anxiously dragged his nails across John's scalp, unable to hold back a sharp tug every time John bit at his neck.

"J - John, the police, remember." Pete squeaked as one of those hands found its way to the front of his trousers, immediately derailing his train of thought with one grope. If a policeman were to catch them, Pete couldn't say that he'd stop, let alone manage a coherent sentence. 

"They can take it up with me," John growled. "Nobody's gonna touch you." He punctuated that thought with a pointed squeeze that turned Pete's knees to jelly. 

In that moment, there was nothing except the two of them as John's hands worked their magic. Pete felt like a horny teenager, but he wouldn't want it any other way. Not when John's eyes had gone all dark with lust and he grunted gruff praise into his ear. He'd become a moaning, whining mess, babbling absolute nonsense just so John kept touching him. 

The pressure building had grown intolerable, and Pete found himself bucking into John to seek out his release. John muttered something low and sweet that Pete couldn't make out over the blood roaring in his ears. He'd snuck his hand into Pete's trousers, urging him along. That was all it took for Pete, whose cries had to be muffled by John's mouth, to come. 

"John," he breathed once it was all over and his trousers were uncomfortably sticky. John chuckled, buttoning him back up and dropping a final, firm kiss on the bridge of his nose. A promise, he realized with a weary sort of joy. 

"John, you – you get back here," Pete said, his voice ragged and monotone. He barely had the energy to joke. 

John, who was retreating enough to give Pete space to recover, immediately returned. He had a lit cigarette hanging from his lips and an affectionate look on his face. Pete plucked the cig for himself and took a drag, grinning cheekily from ear to ear. He must have been really out of it. It didn't take much for John to put him right back in his place with a searing kiss and a steely grip around his arm. 

"Got into enough trouble tonight," John grumbled, stealing his cigarette back. 

And if Pete clung to John's arm the entire way back to his flat because he was too drunk to see straight, well, John didn't say a word. They both knew Pete would be in his bed that night, curled up in sheets nearly as pale as he and attached at the hip to John. Pete couldn't think of a better place to be than within the safe embrace of his oldest friend. 

FIN.


End file.
